Sudden prey

THIRTY-ONE

SANDY DARLING LAY IN THE HOSPITAL BED, TIRED, dinged up, but not seriously injured. Her most pressing problem was her left foot, which was cuffed to the bed frame. She could sit up, she could move, but she couldn't roll over. The simple presence of the cuff gave her the almost uncontrollable urge to roll, and a powerful sense of claustrophobia when she couldn't.

She'd spoken to a lawyer. He said the Hennepin County District Attorney might come up with a charge, but there wasn't a case if what she said was true. She was a victim, not a perpetrator.

Sandy had told the truth, generally, with a few critical lies. She hadn't seen them, she said, until Butters came to get her, to patch up LaChaise. After

Butters showed up, she hadn't been free to leave. She'd tried to get free every way she could.

There remained the problem of LaChaise's fingerprints and other traces in the

Airstream trailer: but nobody but Sandy knew he'd been there-nobody alive-and probably not more than five other people in the world were aware of the

Airstream. If they did find the trailer, and bothered to fingerprint it, she could attribute any cooperation to Elmore. Otherwise, when she got out, she'd wait a few days, and then go out to the trailer with cleaning rags and a bucket of detergent.

And she should get out-in a couple of days, with any luck, the lawyer said.

She turned on her side, felt the tug of the cuff and looked out the window. She had a view of a snow-covered rooftop and a hundred yards of anonymous street.

Elmore. Elmore would be the problem, she thought. The guilt she felt about

Elmore was deeper, more intractable than she would have believed. He haunted her thoughts, in death, the way he never had in life.

She'd babbled something about it to a doctor. The doctor told her that grief was natural, would stay, but could be borne and would eventually fade.

Maybe, maybe not.

God, if I can only get out…

She needed to be outside, working with the horses. This was a pretty time of year, if you liked the north woods, the white fences of the training rings, the dark trees against the snow.

The horses would be out in it now, running over the hillside, the blankets flowing over their backs, gouts of steam snorting from their nostrils.

Sandy Darling shut her eyes and counted horses.

THE PLAINCLOTHES GUYS GATHERED IN HOMICIDE, where there really wasn't enough space, like mourners at a wake, muttering among themselves. Much of the talk was about the Iowa boy and his rifle.

And Stadic, of course.

Stadic dead was better than Stadic alive, everybody agreed on that. But already, the amateur lawyers were talking: he'dnever been found guilty in a court of law.

What would happen to his benefits? He had an ex-wife and kid, would they get them?

''Andy was a greedy sonofabitch, he was always bitchin' about not havin' enough, not makin' enough,'' Loring said. ''All the guy ever thought about was money.

That's why his old lady split. But I never thought he'd…''

Lester came in and cleared his throat and said, ''Listen up, everybody. We're all done. Unless you're on the schedule or you're making a statement, go home.

Finish your Christmas shopping. And get the goddamn overtime forms in, and anybody who wants comp time instead of money, come see me, and I will personally kiss you on the ass and shake your hand…''

''At the same time?''

A little laughter.

A detective from sex said, ''What about Stadic?''

''What about him?'' Lester asked.

''I mean… we were talking… what's gonna happen?''

Lester said, ''Aw, shit, let's not get into that. We got a long way to go with the county attorney.''

''What about Harp?'' asked a drug guy.

''We're looking for Mr. Harp,'' Lester said. ''And pay attention here: if anybody except the chief or the mayor talks to the press about Andy Stadic, without checking with us first, well, that's your First Amendment right, but we will cut your nuts off with a sharpened screwdriver.''

''Hey, are we gonna be on Cops?…''

SLOAN AND SHERRILL FOUND LUCAS SITTING IN AWAITING room at the University

Hospitals, looking at a sheaf of papers in a manila file.

Sherrill stuck her head in and said, ''What's happening, dude?''

Lucas closed the file and said, ''Just… hanging out.''

Taking that as permission to come in, they dropped into chairs facing him, and

Sloan asked, ''Have you seen Weather?''

''She should be waking up,'' Lucas said. ''I'm waiting to go in.''

''Has she said anything to anybody?'' Sloan asked.

''Yeah, but she's disoriented,'' Lucas said. ''She really seems. .. hurt. I think I really hurt her.''

Sloan shook his head: ''You didn't hurt her. You did what you had to.''

Sherrill, exasperated, said, ''C'mon, Sloan, that's not gonna help.''

''What?''

''Cliche ґs,'' Sherrill said. She turned to Lucas. ''Maybe you did hurt her. You ought to think about that.''

''Aw, Jesus,'' Sloan groaned.

''The problem that's got me is, it's my fault,'' Lucas said. ''I didn't see

Stadic-I should have seen him. If I'd seen Stadic, we would've had them all.''

Sloan was irritated: ''C'mon, Lucas, how could you have seen Stadic? He saved your life with Butters.''

Lucas waved him off: ''You remember when we were getting ready to raid poor old

Arne Palin? We were talking at the door, you and me and Franklin? And Lester was there, and Roux? Stadic came in, and Franklin said something like, he wanted to sneak back to his place to pick up some clothes for his wife. An hour later, he was ambushed.''

''Lucas…''

''Listen, after he was ambushed, I ran over to the hospital, and I kept thinking, how could they know he was coming? How could they know? They couldn't just hide outside his house twenty-four hours a day, waiting for him to comealong. Why would they? We'd had it on TV that everybody was safe in the hotel…''

Lucas pointed a finger at Sloan: ''The answer was right there in front of me:

Stadic told them. He was the only one who could have.''

Sherrill shook her head. ''Seeing that might seem possible when you're working it out backwards. At the time, nobody would have figured it out.''

''I should have,'' Lucas said.

''You're feeling sorry for yourself,'' Sloan said. ''Get your head out of your ass.''

''Since I didn't see it… well, I don't know what else I could've done at the hospital,'' Lucas said. He spread his hands, looked around the waiting room as though an answer might be written on the walls, then back at Sherrill and

Sloan. ''I sit here thinking about what I could've done, and I can't think of anything better. Not that that'd given her the best chance of staying alive, with what we knew at the time. Everything we knew said that LaChaise was insane.''

''That's exactly right,'' Sloan said.

''The way I hear it, from what Weather told the docs, she spent the whole time with LaChaise working on him, convincing him he ought to stay alive… that she oughta stay alive. And it worked. They were both getting out of it and then boom! He blows up, and she freaks out,'' Lucas said.

''That's got to have some kind of effect on you,'' Sherrill said.

''What kind of effect? He was a giant asshole,'' Sloan said. ''Getting shot was too good for him.''

''That might not be the way she sees it,'' Sherrill said.

''Well.'' Sloan looked away. ''I mean, what're you supposed to do?''

''I don't know,'' Lucas said. He pushed the conversation away. ''Have you seen

Del?''

''Yeah, he's gonna hurt for a while,'' Sloan said. ''He's not, you know, injured that bad, but he hurts like hell.''

''His wife is pissed,'' Sherrill said. ''She says we should have had more people up there, besides Del.''

''She's right,'' Lucas said.

''What about Sandy Darling?'' Sloan asked Lucas. ''I hear she's talking.''

''Yeah.'' Lucas nodded. He'd spent the best part of an hour listening to the interrogation, before leaving Hennepin General for the University Hospitals.

''Basically, she was kidnapped.''

''Who killed her old man?''

''She doesn't know. She said it wasn't LaChaise or Butters or Martin.''

''Stadic?'' asked Sherrill, in a hushed voice.

''I think so,'' Lucas said. ''He was trying to get rid of everyone. He got the truck tags, somehow, and figured out where they lived. He probably thought they were hiding up there, and went up to take them out. He had to see everybody dead to get free-and they all would've been dead if Sandy Darling hadn't tripped over her goddamn cowboy boots and fallen on her face in the stadium.''

''It's a hell of a story,'' Sloan said. ''The question is, how much of it is bullshit?''

''Maybe some,'' Lucas said. ''Maybe not, though. There were a couple of things: she said while they attacked the hospital, they chained her to a post in Harp's garage. There's a chain around the post, and there're two padlocks, just like she said, and there's paint missing from the post and it's on the chain, as if somebody was trying to pull it free. The chain's got latents all over it, so we'll know if she was handling the chain. I think she was. Then she says she tried to climb out a window on Harp's building, walk down a ledge and go down the fire escape, but that the fire escape wasjammed. There are fingerprints on the window, and the fire escape is jammed-it's actually an illegal latch, but you can't see it. So that's right. And walking that ledge in her bare feet, on snow, you'd have to be pretty desperate. And when she called from the dome, she didn't know it was all over, and she tried to warn me that LaChaise was going after Weather…''

''All right, so she walks,'' Sloan said. He stood up, yawned, and said, ''The big thing is, you gotta take care of yourself.''

''I gotta take care of Weather, is what I gotta do,'' Lucas said.

Sloan shook his head: ''Nope. Nobody can take care of Weather except Weather.

You gotta take care of yourself.''

''Jesus, Sloan,'' Sherrill said. She was getting angry. ''You know what he means

…''

Sloan opened his mouth and shut it again: A few years earlier, Lucas had gone through an episode of clinical depression, and since then, Sloan had thought of his friend as somewhat… delicate was not quite the right word; dangerously poised, perhaps. He said, ''Well…'' and let it go.

A nurse poked her head in, spotted Lucas and said, ''Weather's up.''

Lucas pushed himself out of the chair and said, ''See you guys later,'' and hurried down the hall after the nurse.

Weather had a private room, and when Lucas walked in, she was on her feet, in a hospital gown, digging into a lockerlike closet for her clothes. Her face was intent, hurried.

''Weather…''

She jumped, turned, saw him and her face softened: ''Oh, God, Lucas.'' She reached toward him.

''How are you?'' He wrapped her up in his arms and her feet came off the floor.

''If you don't smother me, I'll probably be okay,'' she gasped.

He put her down. ''Probably?''

''Well, when they had me sedated, they talked me into this ridiculous hospital gown.'' She pulled it out to the side, as if she were about to curtsy. ''Every doc I know has been down to check on me, and every one has taken a good look at my ass.''

''Just like you: bringing light into people's lives.''

''I gotta get out of this gown,'' she said, digging into the locker again.

''Shut the door.''

Lucas shut the door, and as she tossed the balled-up gown on the bed, he said,

''Really now-don't bullshit me. How are you?''

She was pulling on a blouse, and stopped, suddenly, as her hands came through the cuffs. ''I'm sorta… messed up, I think. It's the weirdest thing.'' She rubbed her temple, looking up at him. Then her eyes drifted away, focused in the middle distance past his shoulder. ''I'll be going along, thinking about something else, and then all of a sudden, there I am again, back in the hall with this man and you're standing there and then…''

She shuddered.

''Don't think about it,'' Lucas said.

''I'm not thinking about it. I refuse to think about it. But it's like… like somebody else holds up a picture of it, right in front of my eyes. It just comes, boom!'' she said.

''Post-traumatic stress,'' he said.

''That's what I think,'' she said. ''But in some way, I never really believed in it until now. It's like people who had it were… weaklings, or something.''

''It'll go away,'' he repeated. ''There in the hall-I didn't know what was happening with you and LaChaise, I couldn't take any chances, there wasn't any way to really know.''

''I worked that out,'' she said. ''And God, the whole thing was my fault. What was I doing here? When he came in the OR, I thought I was dead. I thought he'd kill me right there, and all my friends, the people with me. I felt so stupid. ..''

''You can't anticipate lunatics,'' Lucas said. ''None of this made any sense.''

Weather was rambling on: ''Then he made the fatal error. I didn't see it, because we were talking so… normally. But I see it now: he'd maneuvered himself, by what he'd done, the way he was acting, into a spot where all the solutions were drastic and narrow. Thinking about it, I'm not sure he would have surrendered. At the time I thought he would: No, I was sure of it. But now, I'm not sure. When we were talking, he'd keep changing his mind, like

… like.. .''

''A child,'' Lucas said.

''Yes… Well, not quite. Like a crazy child,'' she said. She was staring out the window when she said that, looking down at the trees along the Mississippi, when suddenly she focused again, and turned to look up at him. ''What about you?'' she asked. ''We heard about the policeman, that he was killed and you were there… are you all right?''

''Oh, yeah, I'm fine.'' He stood back from her, holding on to her shoulders but at arm's length, looking her over. She seemed so bright, so focused, so normal, so all right, that he suddenly laughed.

''What?'' she asked, trying on a smile.

''Nothing,'' he said. He wrapped her up again, and her feet came off the floor again. ''Everything. Especially the way that gown showed your ass off.''

''Lucas… ''

''Sandford grabs you by the throat and never lets go.''

– Robert B. Parker

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